I'll Make A Stab At It
by Arthur Delapore
Summary: A young student meets a kindly middleaged doctor with a propensity for exploring Whitechapel...and Frederick Abberline discovers in a quiet, faintly sinister young man a chance to discover who Jack the Ripper is once and for all. EPISODE FOUR IS UP
1. The Error in Terror

I'll Make A Stab At It

Episode One: The Error in Terror

Frederick Abberline was a fellow whose eyes told tales of the sorrows he'd seen on the foggy streets of the decrepit city of London. Ah, the vice, the villainies that he had seen committed on the streets—it was enough to make him weep. But he knew that if he gave in to his emotions, even for a moment, Mary Kelly would come rushing along to make him feel better—and _that _would only make him feel worse.

And yet—and yet…perhaps somewhere in the heart of London, there was someone who had a good soul. It was a hope, wasn't it?

As I walked down the streets of London, on the other hand, enjoying the beautiful fog rising up amid those lovely, crumbling buildings on either side of Whitechapel, I couldn't help but sigh with glee and think how perfectly delightful life was. Therefore, I hadn't the foggiest notion how anyone—not even Inspector Abberline—could feel glum on a night like this. Seeing the poor fellow sitting outside a tavern fingering his moustache made me feel a bit sorry for him, but that was all.

I whistled to myself as I strode along the cobbled streets, taking care to ignore the foulsome odours that surrounded me. After all, while Whitechapel is no botanical garden, it is still a rather nice place to take an evening's stroll.

"Excuse me, young man, how would you like to take a ride with me in my carriage?" I heard a fellow in a coach passing by call out to me.

I frowned, not in annoyance but in bewilderment. I didn't recognize the fellow from Queen Anne. "Who are you, pray tell?" I inquired, not because I didn't know how to speak normal, colloquial English, but merely because I thought perhaps it would impress the English populace to see a student such as myself with such an extensive vocabulary.

"Hmm…I'm a doctor," the fellow replied with a toothy grin. "Come on in."

"And why should I?" I asked dubiously.

"Well, for one thing, my good man, you are walking in Whitechapel, and that is not exactly the safest place for a nice young man to be walking, if you take my meaning," the man replied. "And for another thing, I'm feeling rather lonely. I'd like some company, you know?"

"Oh, well, all right," I said obligingly, since it was getting rather chilly outside. "May I ask what your name is?"

"Certainly," the man replied. "I'm Dr. John Tillinghast. But you can call me Jack."


	2. In Tune With the Moon

Episode Two: In Tune With the Moon

"Well, pleased to _meet _you, Dr. Tillinghast," I declared, shaking the man's hand. "I suppose you're right—about Whitechapel, I mean. But the fog was so thick, the moon was so bright, the clouds were so ghastly—in short, it was such a lovely night that I couldn't stop myself. However, in the future, I will remember not to go out here unaccompanied."

"That would be a good idea, my boy!" Dr. Tillinghast clapped me on the back with a grin. "And your reference to the moon…I quite liked that, you know? The moon…mage of mystery…symbol of spirits…lantern for the lunatic…"

"Lunatic?" I repeated. At that moment, I didn't know what the dickens the doctor was talking about.

"Ah, yes, m'boy, in some societies, the moon is cited as the reason for various circumstances of lunacy," Dr. Tillinghast nodded sagely. "Perhaps it is true. After all, I only get these urges to come here to Whitechapel when the moon is full—a perfect sphere." He sighed with bliss.

I gazed out at the moon from the window and at the same time noticed Inspector Abberline trudging down the street, his head cast down as if in thought…

Frederick Abberline had a problem. It wasn't that the whole town of London was in an uproar (because it usually was anyhow, what with the Irish problem and all that), but no—the Inspector was far more concerned about the whole Jack the Ripper affair. Who was this mocking murderer who left a trail of terror in every bloody byway of Whitechapel? Who?

It was while he was thinking all this, that he noticed Sir Charles walking by. He hastily ducked into a nearby tavern; he didn't really feel like talking to the old bigwig at that moment.

But what was he doing here? And what at this unseemly time of night?


	3. Perhaps He's After A Clue!

Episode Three: "Perhaps He's After A Clue!"

"I wonder what Inspector Abberline is doing at this time of night," I mused aloud.

"Inspector Abberline?" Dr. Tillinghast glanced at me. "What makes you mention _him _all of a sudden...my dear young fellow?"

"I just saw him walking by," I said absent-mindedly. "But he _is _a police officer. That's his job, I suppose. Especially with these Jack the Ripper murders, eh?"

Dr. Tillinghast didn't really seem to be listening to me. Or perhaps he was listening too closely. Either way, a frown seemed to grow on his brow.

"I say, why don't we go follow the Inspector, old boy?" the Good Doctor suggested. "After all, he might be up to something. Perhaps he's after a clue! We could help him."

"I'm game," I said laconically. "But he might not appreciate our help. Don't you have to get to home anyhow, sir?"

"Home? Home?" Dr. Tillinghast repeated. "I suppose so. But I'm not married, so it doesn't matter what _time _I get home. Blast it, young man, what are you so suspicious about?"

"Nothing," I replied hastily. "We'll follow him by all means, if you want."

Frederick Abberline turned down the road and walked hastily towards the tavern in which he had seen Sir Charles disappear into. The fog swirled around him, making it difficult to see anything. However, this all worked in Frederick's favour, for it helped conceal him from Sir Charles, who obviously did not want anyone to notice that he was about at this time of night.

"What could the old boy be up to?" Frederick mused thoughtfully. He spied a young man sitting on a wooden bench near the tavern, with a sketchbook in hand. There was a look of grave, wistful concentration on his face. He continued to sketch for a minute as Frederick stood outside the tavern waiting for Sir Charles to emerge.

The young artist looked up abruptly, as if conscious of someone's eyes upon him.

"Carry on with your drawing," Frederick said, gesturing with his cigarette towards the sketchbook.

"I'm done for the night, Mr. Abberline," the artist replied.

"That's Inspector Abberline," Frederick returned. He usually would not have been so particular about the young man's slip-up, except that he had noticed a faintly sardonic irony in the artist's tone.

"Ah. _Inspector _Abberline. I shall remember next time, I assure you, my dear sir," the artist smiled mockingly. "I believe I saw your lady love walking by several minutes ago in the direction of the _Three Bells Tavern_. Why, what do you know?" he said in mock surprise. "_This _is the _Three Bells Tavern_!"

Frederick studied the young man with a sharp, unamused eye. "You're no friend of the police, I take it?"

"Did I say that?" the artist replied whimsically. "Of course not! I am a constant friend to the police! I draw pictures at the scene of the Ripper murders for them, now, don't I?"

"Oh, so you're the artist who does those sketches of the murder scenes?" Frederick asked with some interest.

"Brilliant deduction, inspector," the artist said ironically. "I applaud you! I would rather like to tarry with you a little while longer and pay my respects to dear Mary Kelly, but time presses, as they say. _Au revoir_, inspector."

"You didn't tell me your name," Frederick reminded him.

"Oh, I didn't?" the artist half-turned towards him, already moving away down the cobbled road. "My name's Jack. Quite a coincidence, eh?"


	4. Jack and Mary

Episode Four: Jack and Mary

Note: Dear Constant Readers, I am terribly sorry for not having updated this rambling old story any sooner. But I am dreadfully busy these days, so please forgive me…and—if it is any recompense—this chapter is a bit longer than my previous (rather short) vignettes. I hope you enjoy, ha ha!

There was a knock at the door. Mary Kelly finished pulling on a white, lacy dress and hurried to answer.

"Jack!" she exclaimed, surprised and perhaps a little dismayed.

"I'm back!" the young man at the door smiled gayly and pushed past her into the cramped little room in which she lived. "Everything ready?"

"For what?" she asked suspiciously.

"For my painting, of course," he laughed harshly. "What did you think? Hurry up and get out of that and put this on." He thrust a red, velvet dress into her hand. "I don't feel like painting damsels in lacy nightdresses tonight."

Mary shrugged, took the dress, and went into a corner of the room behind a screen. In the meantime, the painter began setting his easel and paints up.

"Does my hair look right?" she called from behind the screen.

"It looks dyed, dearest," he said, experimentally brushing different shades of red onto the blank white canvas in front of him. "Hurry up with that dress and leave the technical details to me."

Mary rolled her eyes and finished buttoning up the front of the red dress. "Do you always have to be so unpleasant?" she complained.

"Do you always have to pose like a ballet dancer?" he retorted. "Move to the left—a little more—there, that's it!" He began sketching furiously.

"Don't you think—" she began.

"Don't talk, don't move," the artist said shortly.

She ignored him. "—that it's strange the way Frederick Abberline is coming over here more and more often?"

The artist froze. "Abberline?" he repeated coldly. "Has he been talking to you?"

"Yes," Mary smiled, in spite of herself.

"What do you two speak of?" he asked, biting the end of his brush and staring at his paints.

"The murders, of course," Mary returned. "And…he told me about how his wife died a year ago…"

"Gad—can't these bloody blighters think up a better pick-up line than that?" Jack said, cursing under his breath. "Then what?"

"Nothing much more than that," she said, smiling at the artist. "Oh—well, he _did_ take me to an art gallery. I almost forgot."

"An art gallery?" the artist repeated dangerously.

"Not a modern one," she said quickly.

"It doesn't matter if it was a modern one, my dear," he said thinly. "The point is that he is obviously in love with you. And you are either too _daft _to know this, or you aren't telling me something."

"What do you care?" she shot back. "You're not in love with me. All you care about is your stupid paintings!"

"How can I love you when you won't do anything to leave the—wretched occupation that you have now?" he retorted.

"You're impossible!" she retorted. Then, unexpectedly, her eyes filled with tears. "But you're right. What I'm doing is wrong." She came closer to the artist. "Please help me, Jack," she pleaded. "Help me do the right thing!"

The artist took her in his arms awkwardly, but she held him even more tightly and pressed her lips against his. "I love you," she whispered.

"Mary," he said gently. "I'm sorry for being so nasty to you. If you truly mean it when you say that you are going to—leave this dirty business and be with me, then—"

"I _do_ mean it, Jack!" she said, her voice unexpectedly passionate.

"There's only one problem," he said suspiciously. "Frederick Abberline…"

Her lips were against his before he could finish his sentence.


End file.
